So I’m sitting here at 10:30pm on the Sunday of one of the longest, strangest weeks of my life. On Monday we came home to find the door to our garage kicked in and all my jewelry stolen, along with the laptop that housed a lot of writing (some unpublished) and a year’s worth of family photos.

I remember the feeling of looking at that open, emptied jewelry box, where my necklaces and rings and earrings used to be. I threw my hand to my mouth and sucked in air as if somebody had punched me in the gut.

They took almost every piece of jewelry I’ve ever received from Mac: thirteen years’ worth of anniversaries, birthdays, Christmases and Valentine’s.

Once, when we had only been together about 3 months (he was 19 and I was 21), we were driving along this country road on the way into town, and I started bitching and moaning about how he never bought me flowers. Yes, I know. Impressive. I kept on and on and he was silent, probably wondering how he got hooked up with such a nutjob. He let me really get pissed, elaborating for him all the ways he sucked as a boyfriend (well at this point we had been living with each other for 2 months and 29 days so I felt like we were an old married couple), until all the sudden he pulled the car over in the middle of the country. He was angry. He said “Really? I don’t buy you flowers? I never buy you flowers?!”

He got out of the car, went to the trunk and came back with a flat rectangular box, wrapped in flowered paper.

Inside was a beautiful pearl and white gold chain necklace.

We both cried when we recalled that story.

The bastards don’t know that story, but they have the necklace he handed me that day, when I felt my heart explode and realized I should never, ever accuse this man of lack of romance and generosity, lest I have my ass handed to me again.

And you know I’ll tell you the feeling of violation, to know these rat bastard fuckers stepped on my boy’s bed and pillow on our floor where he sleeps. To know they walked beside our kids’ rooms. And to realize after a bit of time passed that clearly the person knew our house…that it was not done by a stranger, and we have ideas but no way to prove it…and the fuckers wore gloves and we used to have an alarm system but never used it (so it was disconnected)…and I used to keep my jewelry in places other than the box but I didn’t that time…and I knew we lived in a shit neighborhood and should leave…God the regret and rage and hatred and terrifying sense of violation. We’re already broke. I’m already feeling lost and tired with little clue where to go with my life.

And then this? Damn I got wrapped around the axle, folks.

I got so desperate I texted a friend of mine who has an uncanny ability to tell me the most painful truth imaginable. His words pierce, because they’re true, and they hurt like you wouldn’t believe, but they never fail to help me see things in a new light, and be set free.

He said “Yeah, that’s happened to me a couple times. I figured they needed the stuff more than I did.”

Fuck you and your compassion, dude.

And then the killer: “Things happen as they happen, Janelle, the pain is from us fighting what is.”

And I knew then the way to freedom: Get in the moment. Fully accept what’s happening. Let go of the story, the story I’ve attached. Events have no inherent meaning. They are just EVENTS. They are just life happening. I place the value on them. I decide if they’re “good” or “bad.”

The next day I read this post by the glorious Meg Worden and I almost puked it was so right on.

What’s the truth? They took stuff. They TOOK STUFF. In other words, nothing. They took nothing. That stuff has no meaning. I give it meaning. Someday I’m going to be dust in the earth. What the hell does jewelry matter?

The man who handed me that necklace is by my side. The family we built together is by my side. We’re all here, alive, to whine about shit that doesn’t matter.

The last time I checked, the brain that created that writing is still attached to my neck.

And then I told you people about it and an outpouring of love came my way. People offered me money and to send me laptops. My friends called and rallied and invented Mission Impossible style investigation crews.

And we realized we’ve been sitting on our asses not making changes we’ve needed to make for a LONG TIME. We hate this house. We hate this neighborhood. We need to get the hell out. This was the kick in the ass we needed.

I got to watch myself get ALL BENT OUTTA SHAPE about stuff, expensive stuff, and I saw the insanity of my attachment to those items. Who cares? No really. WHO CARES?

This is life. I am a living breathing being with a gorgeous healthy life. Take it all, motherfuckers! Take every last shred of what you want. You must need it more than I do.

We woke up Saturday morning and realized they had broken into my husband’s work truck. They stole his tools and a generator that was chained to the bed of the truck. Bolt cutters.

So we were burglarized twice in 7 days.

Take it all.

Take every last bit.

(Of course now you’ll have to get around a sick-ass alarm system my brother bought me, and sent my way, because I’ve got people that love me in a way that takes my breath away. And you’ll have to FIND something of value since literally I have $100 worth of jewelry left other than the rings on my fingers, and we have no television or electronics. We have no material items of value in this house. It’s actually rather freeing.)

But here’s the craziest shit you’ve ever heard: A few months (um, two?) after we met, Mac proposed to me with a very simple white gold band with 5 or 6 small diamonds spaced around the circle. I thought it was the most gorgeous thing I’d ever seen. On our one-year anniversary, Mac sat across from me at a restaurant and presented me with a big ass diamond ring (well, big to me). He had saved his money all year long to buy me that ring. When he gave it to me he said “I know you always say you don’t care about big rings, but I thought you might like a shiny diamond on your hand.”

I almost fell over.

For a long time I wore them together, but at some point I removed the small band and I never found it again. I haven’t seen that ring in at least 7 years. So often I’ve thought about that simple band and felt sadness that it was gone. I mean talk about sentimental. That’s as meaningful as jewelry gets. But I dismissed it as another casualty of my drinking. One more thing I lost. Or gave away, depending on how you look at it.

Well, last Monday as I walked up to the empty jewelry box, my heart pounding in fear and sadness, I saw something shiny in the space where the stolen drawer had been. Grabbing it, I knew immediately what it was. I gazed in awe at the simple diamond band my husband gave me thirteen years ago, the companion to the ring still on my finger. It must have been jammed in the jewelry box somewhere, and when the burglars yanked the drawer out it was dislodged, and it laid there untouched, waiting for me.

So they gave me back the most precious piece of jewelry I owned, and they lit a fire under my ass, and they showed me how much love I’ve got pouring my way from friends and family and people I’ve never met, and they reminded me of the insanity of attachment to things, of the idea that stuff matters at all.

I’ve got a life to live.

I’ve got everything I need.

And those bitch douchebag degenerate fuckers reminded me of that.

Maybe I should be thanking them. Or maybe, I should do as Meg says, and just stay neutral. Let life happen as it does.

No, I hope they burn in hell. Not really. But sort of.

Whatever. On Saturday, after we found out they stole from us again, we called Mac’s work and the police, and hit the fucking road. We were headed to Santa Cruz to celebrate Rocket’s 8^th birthday, which is tomorrow.

I ain’t got time for that shit. You want it? You can have it. I’m neutral enough to realize that.

I’ll be busy living a real life.

You know one of the best parts about being a failure in a former life is a profound awareness of how infinitely good this life is, now, with all the shit that may come. Because I went to the beach to celebrate the boy who was out of my life for two years. AND NOW HE’S BACK and SO AM I.

Alcoholism stole from me more than some weak-ass burglar ever could.

And that will never be lost on me.

And it will never be stolen.

So bring it, bitches.

I’ve got nothin’ but love for ya.

Happy birthday, little buddy.

On an eerily related note (sometimes timing is uncanny), I’ll be talking about my story of alcoholism on Tuesday night at 6pm PST in a live-streaming event (Google+ hangout) sponsored by LISTEN TO YOUR MOTHER and The Partnership at Drugfree.org. This blog tour is a part of The Partnership’s work to  #EndMedicineAbuse, Please join me on Google+ (you can RSVP here if you want) or view live on this YouTube channel. Hear new/original work by me and 11 other bloggers on the topic of personal connections to addiction, substance use, and/or what we want children to know about the medicine abuse epidemic. I really hope you check it out, and maybe invite your teenagers to listen. I’m speaking directly to them.

Dear Hall boys,

So it appears your mother is a special breed of genius who believes the key to raising sons of high moral fiber is to eliminate all “immoral” or “impure” images from their presence (as opposed to just teach them to be of high moral fiber). If successful, your mom will (apparently) eliminate all pornography, nudity and sex in every form of media including but not limited to internet, art, print and film. She will also make sure no scantily clad women ever near her sons, which could get a little complicated given the whole general population and freedom problem. When you all grow up and leave the house, she’s going to, um, well. Not sure. Maybe poke your eyes out and fill your ears with impenetrable wax?

Perhaps this sounds a little far-fetched to you. Perhaps this sounds a little fucking batshit crazy. Well yes, it is. Your mother’s conclusion that the key to raising “boys of integrity” is to eliminate images that fall out of line with “integrity” is insane, precisely because it places PERSONAL DECISIONMAKING on the shoulders of an outside party, of external circumstances, of beings beyond your control.

In other words, it places the responsibility of YOUR morality on the shoulders of others, and that is wholeheartedly idiotic. I mean, how could anybody ever be a decent person if circumstances beyond our control determined what we think and how we behave? It also, incidentally, fuels what we like to call “rape culture,” wherein the girl is raped by the boy because she was a “slut” and therefore “asking for it.” The boy was the real victim because he was rendered powerless by her unprotected vagina and lack of bra. Your mother’s idea that GIRLS need to cover themselves so YOU can behave like a gentleman is the exact same mentality that fuels rape culture, and results in things like Steubenville or 30-day sentences for pedophile rapists.

So your mom wants you to have a “high moral compass.” That’s so great. I want that for my son too. She does not want you to “linger over pictures of scantily clad high-school girls.” She wants you to be a “man of integrity.”

And in your mom’s opinion, the path to this moral compass and integrity is shaming girls who choose to behave in ways that violate her own interpretation of “morality.”

Well, boys, I have some really good news for you: Your moral compass is not dependent upon the behaviors of others. That’s what makes it MORALITY. It’s YOUR morality. It’s within you.

You could just make the decision to NOT “linger over pictures of scantily clad high-school girls.” EVEN IF THE PHOTOS EXIST.

You totally have the power to do that.

I know. Crazy talk.

Dude, you could be surrounded by 17,000 girls in bikinis and you could like, not rape them. You could not disrespect them. You could not even visualize impure things. You could just say to yourself “Wow, there’s 17,000 girls in bikinis around me. GO ME.”

And no worries, boys, if you lie there at night visualizing your female friends naked. Your mom seems really worried about it, but I’m 100% sure 90% of teenaged boys do that. The other 10% are visualizing their male friends.

And newsflash: The teenaged girls? They’re doing it too. Dude. Teenage girls often masturbate and flirt and do all the things you do (including imagining sex with people), and some of them will even want to have SEX with you, but check it out: You don’t have to do a thing. Their feminine ways, though strong and gorgeous and compelling, have no power over you.

Also, you know those pictures your mom put up of all you boys without shirts looking all handsome? Yeah, there’s a good chance girls might see those and have some “impure thoughts” (also known as “budding sexuality”) but apparently that’s okay with your mom because BOYS are not responsible for the thoughts of GIRLS. Girls are responsible for their own thoughts, or they’re assumed to be asexual themselves or only interested in posing with “arched backs” and “pouty faces” to attract you, the innocent boy. Clearly there’s no way a girl would see YOUR photos, “scantily-clad” indeed, and “linger” over that image for a while.

Look, Hall boys, don’t let your mom convince you you’re a victim of your penis. Don’t let her degrade and diminish you like she’s done to the girls on your newsfeed.

Don’t grow up thinking you’re rendered powerless at the sight of a “slut” or pouty face selfies or braless females or arched backs. In the words of your mom, “you are growing into a real beauty, inside and out,” and no matter how many pouty face selfies exist on your newsfeed, you can grow into the man you want to become, with a high moral compass and integrity, whatever that looks like for you.

And I really fucking hope you do, because I have kids who may be the passed-out ones at a party someday, growing up in this world too, taking in the sick-ass backward culture perpetuated by people like your mother.

Oh, and girls on the newsfeed making pouty faces in pajamas with arched backs and sultry eyes, knock that shit off, but not because boys will never be able to burn your image out of their minds, but rather because you look like a fucking douchebag.

And boys on beaches without shirts showing off muscles in a giant man pile, knock that shit off, but not because girls may be imagining you naked for the next year, but rather because you look like a fucking douchebag.

How about we all just use our brains and stop blaming other people for our inner selves, and please, for the love of God, let’s all stop making duck face.

Hang in there, Hall boys. There’s always one crazy in the family, and I think we all know who it is in yours.

Sincerely,

Mrs. Hanchett

Let’s get one thing straight, America: Miley Cyrus is not the problem.

I don’t care how often she “twerks” or humps teddy bears or foam hands. The problem is not that she’s a fucking moron acting like a douchebag on a stage. The problem is that YOU are surprised by it, offended by it, appalled by it and/or overcome with sympathy for her (which is the weirdest one by far, in my opinion).

Check it out, people bent outta shape that “Hannah Montana,” your “daughter’s role model” is grinding the groin of some giant stuffed bear and a dude who lyrically advocates rape (also, funny nobody’s tweaked out about him, don’t ya think?)  – the only dumbass in this scenario is you.  If you are still relying on American media – the ones who created Honey fucking Boo Boo and Jersey Shore – if you are still looking to them for role models for your children, I’m sorry but you’re a fucking idiot and should just stop talking.

If you are not teaching your kids that American media is designed for one purpose and one purpose only – to sell things to the perpetually moronic – then shut the hell up about Miley Cyrus, because you obviously don’t get it.

She wanted publicity. She got publicity. Her act was wildly successful. We’re all talking about it, aren’t we?

Boom. Her job’s done.

She is not responsible for acting in some way that encourages your daughter to use her brain or not rub her nose in the asses of stuffed bears. You, my friend, are responsible for that. If you’ve raised a kid so backward he or she can’t watch the vapidity of that performance and say to himself or herself “What the hell is wrong with people” (okay maybe in slightly different words), then you have some work to do.

Why don’t you teach your kid some critical thinking skills rather than whine about a stranger on a stage?

In case you haven’t noticed, the days when American mainstream media gave a shit about quality, message or substance have disappeared like Miley’s teddy bear onesie (if they ever existed). You want your kid to watch art? Goodness? Stuff with actual substance?

Watch some Leave it to Beaver or Lassie or fucking Ang Lee films or Sundance indie comedies or better yet take them to a freaking museum. Watch old movies. Go outside. Do something.

Listen to Frank Sinatra or the Sex Pistols. Go hear some live music. Analyze some graffiti. Do whatever the hell you want but please, for the love of all that’s holy, stop looking to American media as a guiding light for your child and then acting all surprised when somebody masturbates with a foam finger.

And all you people attacking her, a 20-year-old barely woman, for acting like a slut/whore/whatever you call her, put this in your pipe and smoke it: She can act as slutty as she damn well pleases. She’s an adult.

You know you did the same when you were 20, only she’s making a crapload of money from it whereas you only made an ass of yourself at frat parties and walked home in shame.

I jest. Sort of.

But really, why the hell is she held up to some STANDARD? Whose standards are we talking about? YOURS?

No.

She’s a pop entertainer. She has a whole TEAM behind her telling her what to do and how to do it. The pop entertainment world constitutes the standards against which she is held, and I think we can all agree those standards are LOW.

Her job is to make money. Her job is to pull attention to herself. Do you think this ruined her career? COME ON. With American amnesia and obsession with trash, this merely piques our interest. The question is now: What’s she gonna do next?

My goodness, honey, what’s that crazy girl up to NOW? Let’s turn on the television and buy People magazine to find out!

And why the hell are people feeling sorry for her? My God if I hear it one more time I’m going to break something: “One more casualty. One more poor girl destroyed by American media.”

Really?

She’s a VICTIM you moron? No. She is not a victim. She is a 20-year-old making more money than you will ever see. She is a 20-year-old privileged asshat playing a game working so beautifully the only chumps are US.

The joke’s on us people.

She gets on stage and bolts around like a tweaked out sex-addict squirrel with a broken tongue and weird hair and all of America responds on cue: The scandal! The shame! The poor Hannah Montana! Center of the national spotlight! Fuck Syria! Fuck Egypt! Miley will ruin all the people!

I just feel so sorry for this young woman who is making millions playing American idiots like a fucking fiddle.

No, no I don’t. I do not feel sorry for her at all.

Do I respect her? No. Do I give a flying rat’s ass what she does? No.

Why?

Because she has no bearing on my life or my kids’ lives and if she does, I have only myself to blame.

If my daughter feels all “let down” by Miley Cyrus, I need to have a serious sit-down with her, explaining first of all: “Honey, thou shalt not revere Disney (Nickelodeon?) pop stars or anybody created to sell shit to tweens.”

Actually, don’t revere anybody famous merely because they’re famous. Watch their art. Is it art? Is it saying something? Or is it insipid contrived drivel? Figure it out, kid.

Is it Hannah fucking Montana or is it Ed Norton? Which one of them played Tyler Durden’s alter ego? Which one of them flipped her hair a lot on television? So…which is worthy of your admiration? Which one is created to sell lunchboxes?

That’s the kind of judgment my kid needs.

I want my kids to EXPECT this Cyrus crap, not stand in awe and disbelief of it. We should be thanking her for being so damn upfront about it, for just saying it outright: I AM A SHALLOW, TASTELESS POP ENTERTAINER. If you have a brain, you will ignore me.

Stop whining, America.

Grow up. When Miley does, she’ll be laughing her ass off at all of us, if she isn’t already, for caring so much about a game she’s played, and played brilliantly, tongue hanging out and all, almost as if she was mocking us all along.

Just when I think I’m doing okay as a mother, some soul-sucking invention launches itself in my face and screams “Oh no, bitch. You’re still wrong. You’re never gonna get this right.”

For example, BACK TO SCHOOL TEACHER APPRECIATION GIFTS.

I saw those five horrid words strung together for the first time a few days ago and thought “Wait. That can’t be a real thing.”

It must just be some bullshit created by Target or Walmart to sucker us (through guilt) into buying useless crap for people who are probably wishing we’d all stop buying them useless crap. It’s an invented thing like “Sibling Appreciation Day” or health insurance company customer service. It’s not real. It’s an idea that nobody actually gets behind.

But then I see real live grown-up humans talking about ideas for Back to fucking School Teacher Gifts and I die a little inside because now I have irrevocable evidence that at least a few people think it’s a real thing.

Which means, of course, once again, I’m the freak.

Check it out. I’m gonna say this once and I hope it’s clear: I will never, ever buy a goddamn Back to School Teacher Appreciation Gift.

Why?

Because I’m a horrible human being. Let’s start there.

You know how my mind goes?

Why the fuck would I buy an “appreciation” gift for a teacher I do not yet appreciate? I mean seriously, how does that make sense? She could be like the worst teacher in the world. She could play favorites and my kid could be the non-favorite.

Or wait. Maybe that’s it: Is this gift to butter her up in advance so my child is undeservedly favored on account of the cute wooden apple paper weight I gave her on the first day?

Fuck that noise.

If my kids are loathed or adored it’s gonna be at their own hands. Master of their fates and whatnot.

Oh, come ON. I know it’s a “nice gesture,” and I know teachers are working way before the first day of school, and I know they don’t get paid enough and are doing some of the hardest work imaginable. Some of the teachers in my life were life-changing. Wonderful. I actually just tried to email my 5^th-grade teacher a couple months ago to thank him, because he told me I had a talent in writing, and that I should always follow it, and he sent a story I wrote called “The Pig Family” into a local newspaper and it got published, and for the rest of my youth I thought in the back of my mind “I’m a writer. I’m a talented writer. Mr. Zuniga said so.” It’s like he said it and I believed it and it never left me. And look what I’m doing now, folks. How do you thank somebody for that? I love that man.

And some of my kids’ teachers have blown my mind with what they were willing to do for my kids. My daughter had a teacher last year who stayed after school on Fridays to read freaking Charles Dickens with her. Every week when it happened I just wanted to stare at her because I couldn’t believe the patience, devotion and kindness. My son’s teacher last year made my boy with dyslexia feel safe, protected, capable and confident in the classroom, and she did it purposely and knowingly, and he blossomed because of her, her insight, her gentleness, her care for my son. How do you thank people like that? My heart explodes. You better believe they got a letter from me at the end of the year.

Incidentally, I once threw a slumber party for 7 girls and had to sleep for like 9 days after it to deal with the shock of the annoyance of that many children. I have no idea how they do it.

But let’s be honest: Some teachers are mediocre. Some teachers totally fucking blow. Some show up every day dragging their scowling asses to the classroom because they are 7 years from retirement or have no better career ideas. I had a teacher in junior high taunt me for being the slowest runner during P.E. Honestly it was cruel. She did it front of the whole class, told me she had heard good things about me and was excited about having me in her class, but now she knows I’m nothing special. Ouch. And in 7^th-grade, when my face was full of pimples and I was already a geeky poor kid.

What a bitch.

I’ve had teachers drone on endlessly about NOTHING, day after day after day, so clearly not giving a shit it’s ridiculous. I’ve had teachers only pay attention to the athletes or cool kids. I’ve had soul-sucking teachers.

So why do I have to get all excited about the possibility of a person doing their job well? I have an idea: How about you do your job well and then I will express my gratitude for it once I’ve developed a genuine respect for you?

Shocking stuff here.

See, I told you. Horrible human being.

Now, let’s back up.

Even if I had a heart, even if I could theoretically get behind this whole Back to School Teacher Gift nonsense, there is no way I could handle that shit logistically.

I had a hard time getting all the stuff on the four-mile-long, brand-specific, color-inch-line-spacing specific $100 supply list. [It was really only a page, but it felt like four-miles and it was definitely $100 for the two kids.]

Do you really think I can handle some “thoughtful little something” in addition?

I’m just trying to remember to make lunches, people. WORK WITH ME HERE.

Oh just buy a Starbucks gift card, you say?

Right. Yes. Easy. Except that we’re broke, and it’s rude to get something below like $10.00, right? I mean $5.00 buys a coffee, maybe two, but not even enough coffee for two people. So it’s really gotta be $10.00, because if we’re showing appreciation, what the hell does $5.00 say? “I almost appreciate you?”

“I sort of appreciate you?”

“I appreciate you but not enough to spend actual money on you, which brings us back to the whole ‘almost’ thing?”

But if I get $10.00 cards for both of my kids’ teachers, I’m $20.00 IN THE HOLE and them I’m just bitter, cause I can’t really afford that, particularly since I just spent $100 on supplies. So now I’ve started the year off spending money on a human I’ve never met in HOPES that he’s a decent teacher and won’t abuse my child or turn him into a Republican (That was a joke. Come on it was FUNNY. I’d much rather my kid turn into a Republican than one of those elitist, out-of-touch privileged yuppie liberals who think they’re all enlightened and against-the-system when actually their whole life is founded on the system they learned to hate in that liberal private girls’ college. I mean honestly. Is there anything worse? You’re right. Rush Limbaugh. Actually, nevermind. It’s up in the air.)

Nope. Rush is worse.

Back on track, Janelle.

I hope their teachers teach them to FOCUS.

So then I tell myself “Rage against the machine!” Fight the system! Live on the edge! Reject the Back to School Teacher Appreciation Gift!

And I think I’m secure in my decision, until it pops up again on my newsfeed. Again there’s an advertisement. Again there’s an Instagram of these super cute Mason jar cookie mix things with a paper-bag tag that says “Thanks, teacher!” and some raffia and a joyful mother exclaiming in the comment “I saw it on Pinterest!”

And I feel like a total asshole.

And I wonder what the hell is wrong with me. I mean really, “Why am I such a dick?”

I think I was born without the appropriate mothering gene, or at least the one required to participate in illogical activities grounded in niceness and generosity.

My God, there is something wrong with me.

Whatever.

Rage against the Back to School Teacher Appreciation Gift!

Here’s something for your damn Pinterest board.

You know, I always thought it would be cool and romantic to be a poor Bohemian writer. You know, give up stability to follow your “Art.”

I mean Kerouac sure made it sound fun.

It’s really not that fun. Of course I’m not a Bohemian or a beatnick, also I’m not sure you could call this “Art.”

BUT I AM BROKE.

And I write. So there.

A few years ago I had a job in a law firm. It was a great job. The best part of it BY FAR was the fact that every two weeks (notwithstanding some disaster on account of my drinking habits), a check arrived in my bank account, like clock work. It was amazing. I got up and went to work every day, and in return, money appeared and I could use it just as my little heart desired.

Do you catch the yearning in my voice?

Good. Cause it’s real.

But as the years passed, this weird itch started forming in my gut somewhere. I started writing this blog thinking it would fix it, and it did for awhile, BUT THEN IT GOT WORSE.

It’s like I tasted writing, I tasted the sweet nectar of f-bombs and honesty (cause really that’s pretty much what this thing is, right?) and then all you people came into my life and I fell desperately in love and fell over one day in awe that all the sudden people were reading this blog, and they are fucking awesome people.

I thought I wanted to be an English professor. I quit my job at the law firm.

I was getting my M.A. in English and planning on pursuing a PhD. But then this post happened in February and some writing opportunities came and I started writing for Parenting magazine (they were sold to Parents and I lost my gig) and allParenting (I have a column there called “My Outside Voice” in which I get all political (cause like a good friend I mostly keep that stuff off this blog)). And Brain, Child published a couple pieces on their website, which was my dream, but mostly you people keep happening and I want to write, to you, for me, for us, not because I speak for you or because what I’m saying is important or profound or whatever, but because you seem to hear me, and me you, and there’s something fucking real there that shouldn’t be ignored.

You have to understand I didn’t anticipate any of this: I just wrote because it was in my heart and I wanted to, and I had to, so I did, to kill that incessant itch. And I’m amazed and overwhelmed at the opportunities that have arisen from that “itch.”

Ok let’s stop talking about itches. It’s starting to remind me of STDs. OMG Gross.

I graduated from the M.A. program, but I didn’t go to PhD school.

I devoted my life to writing, because of all that above.

I had two writing gigs and was a consultant for the firm and it seemed like this would all be fine. Ah, but I lost the Parenting magazine job (they were sold to Parents and the blog was discontinued) and the consultant job in the same month, which means I lost 2/3 of my income and yeah. Now we’re broke. OH COME ON I’m not going to ask you for money.

Please.

I like you people, but I sure as hell don’t need to be beholden to the interwebs. Can you imagine? One day you’d be reading this and you’d be like “You stinky whore! I just gave you $20.00 via Paypal and now you’re at a fucking BLUEGRASS SHOW IN MONTEREY?”

And then I’d have nothing to say except “Yeah, sorry, dude. We only appear to be grown-ups.”

It’s a really strange feeling to devote your life to something because you feel deep in your gut something is there, something can happen, and it takes TIME to make it happen. I can’t run out and get a full-time job because I’m working on a book proposal (shhhhhhh).

But friends I’m gonna level with you: Sometimes this is totally not fun. It’s not glamorous or sexy or cool at all. It’s not even really interesting.

You know what this is?

A FUCKING DUCT-TAPED SIDE-VIEW MIRROR (that’s kind of falling off anyway)

No really, this is my car.

Hot, right?

Ah, I’m not complaining. Well actually yes of course I am.

But we’re eating (CLEARLY). We’re paying a mortgage (sometimes barely, and 10 minutes before it’s due) and thankfully have a small life. We’re learning to have a smaller one, but there are days when I wake up and all I want is the security of a bi-monthly paycheck, that softness in my gut that knows when the next check will come: the way clear, the path carved. I spend my time looking for part-time work or holing myself up, removed from my family – one more afternoon alone at a damn coffee house, wondering what the fuck and why and for what  – pushing my terror aside for a few minutes to write the proposal, submit more writing, build a platform to prove myself.

And it all hinges on unknowns anyway. It’s weird to work your ass off and devote your life to something that may or may not happen. It’s really quite stupid when I think about it.

If I were smart I’d get a full-time job, right? I’d do what it takes to buy more things for my kids and get them in better schools and pay for more lessons and sports. Right? I mean I’m a mother of three kids and I need to PUT MY FAMILY FIRST.

But I’m not smart, and I’m not stopping until I’ve at least tried.

My kids are just fine. Money never made for a happy childhood anyway, and you know what’s crazy? They’ve never once noticed the fucking duct-taped mirror.

I’m writing this so we can go through it together, and laugh one day, looking back, when this is just the storm before the glorious clearing. (Or I’m back at the trusty cubicle, enjoying the bi- monthly paychecks and general malaise, planning my next exit strategy, looking back with nostalgia on my days as a crazy poor aspiring writer.)

Either way, this whole thing is your fault. YOUR existence is the reason I feel all compelled to keep on writing. YOU and your damn encouragement and support and brilliant fucking comments that lead me to believe we’ve got something going here.

I’m really grateful for you. This really isn’t your fault, and we’ll just keep on keepin’ on, you and me.

Because really, at this point, is there any other option?

I know I’m lucky as hell. I know I’m living a dream. But everybody’s gotta whine sometimes.

There’s this Rumi poem that says “Let the beauty you love be what you do.”

This is the beauty I love.

So fuck it, I’m doing it.

Cheers.